


the clocks strike four

by AnonymousSinner



Category: Antisepticeye - Fandom, Jacksepticeye RPF, Septiplier - Fandom, Youtube RPF, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Demonic Possession, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pain, and a bit not good, and abuse, and jack cant stop it, anti basically takes whatever the fuck he wants, but its briefly mentioned like its not the focus of this, for mark and jack, ish, its basically harassement, theres no actual sexual content but like, this is messed up okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousSinner/pseuds/AnonymousSinner
Summary: Jack doesn’t know where he goes back to. He doesn’t know what his purpose is, what he does on those nights where he leaves Jack’s flat and explores the streets. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t hurt Jack yet, why he just sits at his desk sometimes and waits for the hours to pass, watching him ‘sleep’. 
  All he knows is that his name is Anti, and he always comes at 4 a.m.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! so this was born because of the whole anti stuff that's been going on lately and because i've read 'blessed with a curse' by quintessentia and galaxyghosty like a million times. and like i've been writing this for the last couple of days bit by bit and today i just. finished it. its not like a fully fledged work and kind looks like the beginning of something longer but im not gonna be writing it. but if anyone is inspired by this and wants to write more then hell ye u do that friends. it's basically just messed up psychopathic garbage tbh but i hope u like!!!

_But all the clocks in the city_

_Began to whirr and chime:_

_‘O let not Time deceive you,_

_You cannot conquer Time._

* * *

 

The only thing Jack knows for certain is that it happens at 4 a.m.

He doesn’t know how it happens, or why it’s happening to him. He’s not even sure when it started, because for all he knows, it could have gone on for months before he became aware of it. There’s no schedule to it, no pattern, no “every full moon” type thing he could prepare himself for. All he has is that single miserable certainty. All he has is 4 fucking a.m. on any random day of the week.

The first time it happened, at least as far as he knows, he’d been on the verge on falling asleep. Collapsed on his bed, frustrated at a faulty internet connexion and a video he still wasn’t satisfied with after hours of editing, he’d been decided to sleep most of the day away. He’d pulled the covers over his head just after three, had lain there lost in half-conscious thoughts about charity streams and that one cryptic text from Mark. Such a silly problem, now that he thinks about it, but back then it was all that bothered him. A luxury compared to what keeps him awake these days.

It’s the physical symptoms that he looks out for. That first night, when the nausea flooded his stomach and bile rose in his throat, his first thought was that he must have eaten something out of date. But then came the pinpricks; sharp little stabs in the tips of his fingers that travelled up his arms and made him hiss and sit up. And then nothing. That godawful second of blindness, deafness, numbness.

He knows to expect them, now. It’s why he always goes to bed shortly after 3, why he lies wide awake in the darkness of his room, one hand pressed against his stomach as he hides his face in his pillow. _Always have your back turned. Always stay silent. Always stay still. If you feel nothing when your watch beeps, you’re alright. If you feel sick, keep your breathing steady and your eyes shut tight, and **don’t fucking move an inch**._

4 a.m. Nausea, pinpricks, nothing. And then he comes through the screen.

He’s only seen it happen that one time. It starts with static filling his computer screen, pixels stuttering and glitching. Little by little, they start to form colours, shapes. Pale white fingers come into focus, and they push and scratch, and you can hear it. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, but lower, darker. And then his hand breaks through with a sound like a hundred bones breaking at once, and you’ve only got seconds left. When the cracking fills his room, Jack knows that when he counts to five in his head, it’ll be over. And he’ll be standing right there, sucking in sharp, tired breaths and leaning against Jack’s desk like he owns it. Then he either leaves, walks out of Jack’s room and into the cold night air, or he stays. It’s the latter that Jack dreads, because it means he needs to keep quiet for longer. He has to lie there, frozen and silent, waiting. Sometimes, he’ll sit at Jack’s desk, spinning slowly around in his chair, mumbling quietly to himself in a language Jack can’t make out. Other times, he’ll just stand there, unmoving.

The first time, he chose to stand there. Pale palms pressed onto the flat surface of Jack’s desk, scarred arms holding him up, he leant himself back like a friend would, like he’d been there countless times before, like he belonged there. Like Mark did that one time months ago, a warm, tired smile tugging at his lips as he stumbled his way through a confession, still somehow managing to seem confident.

Jack hates that it reminds him of that moment. He doesn’t want there to be any link between Mark, with his goofy laugh and his brown eyes and his cocky yet genuine attitude, and _him_ , who has nothing, absolutely _nothing_ in common with Mark apart from that one stupid memory that always springs, forbidden, into Jack’s mind whenever he revisits that first night.

And he revisits it often. He can’t help it. He can’t forget how he’d pulled himself upright, stared in shock and disbelief at the man – the _thing_ in front of him. He can’t forget how he’d reached instinctively for his phone, and how it had flown from his fingers and across the room, hitting the wall and shattering into pieces. He can’t forget the laugh, quiet and terrible, that had his skin break out in goose bumps as he scrambled backwards, pressing himself so far back into the headboard of his bed that he could feel it making indents in his skin.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jack had spat, adrenaline and fear pushing the words through gritted teeth, and God, he’d been so fucking scared.

“Come on now, little one. Don’t you recognize me?” The first words he ever said, the first time Jack ever heard his voice, except it wasn’t. He’d heard that voice millions of times before, heard it every single day, because it was his own. Dark, cold, apathetic and gravelly from disuse, but undeniably his own. He’d looked up at Jack then, and time no longer held any meaning as that one eye met Jack’s. A striking ring of sickly green against inky, bottomless black that stared right through him as cracked lips spread into a bastardisation of Jack’s signature grin. A fucked up, horrific version of Jack’s own fucking face.

“Wrack your brains, _a mhuirn_ _ín_. What’s my name?” A soft, quiet question that sounded impossibly loud in the silence of his bedroom, and Jack hadn’t replied. He’d stared, fear freezing his nerve-endings as the answer swam in his mind, clear and terrifying and almost condescending in its simplicity.

“Go to sleep, sweet one. I won’t hurt you tonight.” The last words Jack ever heard him speak, whispered like a secret.

And then he was gone. No flash of light, no eerie moaning. Not even a blink. He was there one minute, and then he wasn’t.

Jack doesn’t know where he goes back to. He doesn’t know what his purpose is, what he does on those nights where he leaves Jack’s flat and explores the streets. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t hurt Jack yet, why he just sits at his desk sometimes and waits for the hours to pass, watching him ‘sleep’.

All he knows is that his name is Anti, and he always comes at 4 a.m.


	2. Chapter 2

_In the burrows of the Nightmare_

_Where Justice naked is,_

_Time watches from the shadows_

_And coughs when you would kiss._

* * *

 

“Dude, you alright?”

“Yeah, m’fine. C’mon, go _left_ you stupid-” Jack breaks off with an angry shout, barely refraining himself from chucking his controller on the floor as his character dies for the seventh time in a row.

“Wanna take a break?” Mark suggests, voice shaking from barely concealed laughter, and Jack huffs childishly.

“Don’t mock me – I’ll beat your stupid high score if it kills me,” he grumbles, glaring at his camera so Mark can see his hatred clearly through their Skype connection.

“Nice smoulder,” Mark says, nonplussed, “but you can’t beat me when you’re this pent up, babe.”

“Well, there aren’t many ways for me to resolve that stress, are there?” Jack tries not to seem affected by the pet name as he gives his camera a look, raising his eyebrows suggestively. It’s a recent thing they’ve been doing; playing on the sexual tension that just keeps growing steadily between them the longer they’re apart.

“Hey, I’m a respectable Youtuber. As much as I would have liked to stay in Ireland to seduce you properly, I have a channel to attend to.” Mark’s cocky grin is back, warm and teasing and making Jack’s heart squeeze.

“Yes, God forbid you miss another FNAF rip-off,” Jack says flatly, and Mark lets out an indignant shout, but his eyes are smiling.

“At least I finished all the FNAF games,” he retorts, and then glances down, presumably looking at the time on his computer. His eyes widen, and Jack braces himself automatically.

“Dude, isn’t it like, almost 3 a.m. over there? I thought you said you had to get up at 6 this morning – how are you still functioning?” He laughs, but Jack can tell he’s worried. He’s sweet, like that.

“Too much energy, man,” he replies, the lie coming to him easily despite the bitter taste that accompanies it.

“Sleep is for the weak, right, I getcha. No, but seriously, you need to go to bed.” Mark leans forward, brown eyes moving to his camera so it looks like he’s looking straight at him. For a moment, it almost feels like it is.

“I will in few, _Mom_ ,” Jack says, trying to sound teasing, but his exhaustion is catching up with him. He’s so tired, and he wants more than anything to just sleep.

He can’t, though.

“Get your Irish ass into bed. We can play again later!” Mark chides, frowning, and then his expression softens. “One day I’ll tuck you in, but you need to do that yourself for now.”

“That was so cheesy,” Jack says, but he’s smiling, and Mark laughs.

“I love how pink your cheeks get when you’re flustered. Good night, Jack.”

“G’night,” Jack hears himself say, and with one final smile and a silly little wave, Mark ends the call.

And then the loneliness and fear rushes in. Jack takes a deep breath, pushing the feeling down, and gets up from his desk.

He doesn’t bother checking if his front door is locked when he steps out of his bathroom, teeth brushed and face washed like he isn’t about to go through the same gruelling routine he goes through every night. Heading back into his room, he closes the door – so he can hear if it’s pulled open – and switches his shirt with the oversized ‘Warfstache’ one he’d stolen from Mark’s suitcase not two months ago. It’s a small comfort, but he clings to it like he needs it to breathe, and maybe he does. He opens the drawer of his bedside table, taking out his watch and fixing it around his wrist like he’s putting on shackles. It’s big and uncomfortable and a horrific neon orange, but it’s loud. He can’t afford to miss the beep. 

Crawling under the covers, Jack glances at the time: 3:12 am. 48 minutes left.

“Please don’t come tonight,” he whispers. He does this each time, like it makes a difference. It doesn’t.

Jack shuts off the light, closes his eyes, and waits.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_In headaches and in worry_

_Vaguely life leaks away,_

_And Time will have his fancy_

_To-morrow or to-day._

* * *

 

He’s such a funny little thing.

Most people would have moved away, bought a new computer, or even called the police. Most people would have driven themselves insane with fear, until they ended it all with a leap from a roof or a bullet in their head. Most people are predictable, boring, dull.

Not him, though. He doesn’t try to stop it, doesn’t try to run. He doesn’t confide in anyone, doesn’t call for help, doesn’t share the madness that I bring him. Such a funny, sweet, self-destructive little thing.

I still remember his face when he first saw me. Those blue eyes, wide with fear – not from surprise, but from recognition. He knows me, just as I know him. He knows my name, knows how easily it would roll off his tongue if he ever dared to speak it aloud. It’s familiar, like the back of his hand or his mother’s voice.

He’s clever. He knows when I arrive, keeps the door shut tight so he can hear if I leave. He knows how to steady his breathing, has it down to an art. Back turned, eyes shut, lips parted as he sucks in oxygen. Clever, clever boy who thinks he has me all figured out.

I know he’s not asleep. I can hear his heart beating; I can hear the anticipation and anxiety coursing through his veins, tainting his blood with the taste of me. I know that just moments before, those soft pink lips were begging me not to visit him. They lie, but he doesn’t know that yet.

He will, though. I’m not patient, and his mind is gradually being turned to mush by that stupid American who doesn’t know shit about him. I have to stop it before he ruins him completely.

I lean back farther against his desk, curling my nails into the wood, scratching at the smooth surface. I see him shiver from across the room, hear his heart skip a beat. He’s listening out for me, trying to guess what I’m doing. I smile.

“You pay too much attention to detail. It means you miss the obvious,” I say aloud, my voice ringing in the empty room. He freezes, and I see his fingers clench into fists around his sheets. A pretty image.

Slowly, I move. One foot after the other, quietly stepping across the room and avoiding the moonlight seeping in through his window. His breathing quickens up, and I can tell he’s struggling with himself. Does he give up pretence and run? Does he stay like this? What are my intentions; why am I changing my pattern?

“If I wanted you dead, you would be,” I inform him, sitting down on the edge of his bed and looking down at him. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. My fingers dance teasingly over his arm, snapping his wristwatch open and pulling the ugly, clunky thing away, but he stays frozen in place. A perfect porcelain doll.

“Don’t bore me, now,” I say, dropping the watch to the floor before gently brushing the hair from his face. His pretty eyelashes flutter at the touch, and anyone else would have missed the tremble of his lower lip. I don’t, though. I don’t miss anything.

“Come on, _a mhuirnín_. Let me see those lovely eyes of yours,” I whisper, bringing my thumb down to the corner of his mouth. I push gently against the skin, and that does it.

“Stop,” he croaks out, rolling onto his back and going to push himself up. I grin, and then I’m pressing him back down, my grip like iron around thin, fragile wrists.

“No,” he protests, struggling deliciously as he keeps sweet blue eyes trained decisively away from mine. I pin his arms above his head, laughing.

“Silly boy,” I say, moving my face down close to his, and he whimpers as our noses brush, “You didn’t really think you could escape me, did you?”

“Get _off_ ,” he shouts, and there it is, that lovely, loud voice of his, tinged with fear. I smile, tighten my grip, and let him fight me for a bit. It’s easier, this way.

“Fuck, _stop_ , what the fuck do you _want_?” he curses after a moment, arms straining as he tries to wrench them free with one last tug. I raise an eyebrow at him, and finally, he stops his wriggling.

“Good boy,” I murmur, and he lets out a disgusted sound, turning his face away from mine.

“What do you want, you bastard?” he asks again, frustration and fear making him bold. I dig my nails into his skin in warning, and he winces.

“You know my name, Jackaboy. I strongly suggest you refrain from calling me anything else,” I tell him, pressing my lips against the soft skin of cheek.

“Let go of me,” he hisses through gritted teeth, ever the stubborn brat. I chuckle, moving up to nip at the lobe of his ear, and he jerks violently.

“What’s my name, _a mhuirnín_?” I hum, delighted by the way I can feel his pulse flutter where I’m holding his wrists. His breath is coming quicker, and he’s fighting to stay still, every nerve in his body screaming at him to get away from me.

“Say it, and I’ll let go.” This gets his attention, and his eyes snap up to mine as his body tenses. It’s pathetic, but it’s in his biology. Humans cannot avoid _hoping_. It always ends in tears.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks me, voice shaking, and he’s so pretty when he’s scared. I shake my head, tutting softly, and press my lips gently against his cheekbone again. He whimpers, shivers, grits his teeth.

“Come on now, Seán. Just tell me my name.” I say it quietly; a comforting whisper. He doesn’t want to buy it, doesn’t want trust me, but that doesn’t matter. I watch his tongue flick out to moisten his lips, and then, like it physically hurts him, he gives in.

“Anti. Your name’s Anti.”

And just like that, he’s _mine_.


	4. Chapter 4

_It was late, late in the evening,_  
  
_The lovers they were gone;_

  
_T͜҉h̶̨́e̸͘ c̷ļ̕o̶̴͏ć͡͠k̷̡͜s̀͜ hą̀d ̛̛c̸̡̢ȩ͠a̧s̨̨e͡d͠ ͏͘͞t̀́ḩe̷͢͢ir̢҉̵ ć̴͘h̀͡ì̶mi̶̢ǹg̢͘͠,̧͘_

  
_̢ ͠ ҉ ̷̷An̛͢d̷̛͞ ̷̛͢t͢͠h҉e͟ ͟d͜eę̨͝p͜ ̴̕͝ri̡̨̕v̷ę͜r̵̶͘ ͢͏r̨͏à̛̀ǹ̢ o̷̧ǹ._

* * *

 

It only takes Jack a second to realise that he’s made the wrong call. Anti grins, eyes flashing, and a forked tongue makes a clicking sound as his grip on Jack’s wrists tighten. It _hurts_ , feels like he’s grinding the bones together, and Jack can’t stop the pained cry that leaves his mouth.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Anti cooes, and his face is so close that Jack can feel every single breath flutter against his skin, “did that hurt you?”

“Get off, you promised,” Jack chokes out and God, he sounds pathetic. He knows what he looks like now, knows how stupid and scared and powerless he is to the thing straddling his waist.

“I don’t keep my promises, _a mhuirnin_ ,” Anti replies, and there it is again, the Irish word that used to sound so warm to Jack’s ears before he heard it spoken like _this_.

“ _Get off me you fucking son of a bitch!_ ” It leaves him in a scream, panic finally taking over as he thrashes around with all his might, desperate to have him gone, desperate to get away. Anti growls, and then cold fingers are wrapping around his neck and Jack can’t fucking breathe. A choked sob forces its way through his throat, and he can feel the warm drops of blood stain the side of his neck as sharp fingernails break through the skin.

“ _My name is Anti_ ,” Anti spits, and he’s furious now, his eyes angry slits and his upper lip curled back in disgust, “ _You either call me that or shut your fucking mouth, whore._ ”

_I can’t breathe. It hurts. Fuck, it **hurts** , let **go** -_

A pitiful gurgle spills from his lips, and Jack’s vision is blurry from the lack of air and the tears filling his eyes. Anti cocks his head and hums in satisfaction as the first drops spill over and roll down his cheeks, like he’s just found out something particularly interesting.

“My, aren’t you pretty when you cry,” he murmurs, and then his crushing grip is gone as quickly as it came. The wrecked noise that Jack makes as he sucks in a breath just serves to make him laugh; a pleased, high-pitched cackle that sounds borderline playful.

“Oh, that was _lovely_. Look at you, already so far gone and we haven’t gotten started yet. Are you this easy with your Mark?” Anti’s eyes flash dangerously when he asks the question, and Jack’s heart beats wildly in his chest, terror kicking in at the mention of Mark’s name.

“You leave him _alone_ – whatever you want to do, you don’t fucking touch him,” he gasps out, the words like knives as he forces them through his throat. Anti laughs again, but there’s no humour this time. It’s flat, cold, fake.

“I have no interest in your moronic plaything,” he states, “but see, if he tries to get any closer to you, I may have to kill him anyway.”

“No,” Jack manages, and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth as a wave of nausea crashes over him.

“He thinks you belong to him, you see,” Anti continues, ignoring him, “And that hurts my feelings, because you are nobody’s but _mine_.” The last word drips with possessiveness, and all Jack can do is shake his head. His mind is useless, Mark’s name running through it again and again like a flashing ‘Danger’ sign, and he doesn’t even have the time to try and turn his face away as Anti leans down and presses cold lips to his.

Jack freezes, can’t even move his fingers as Anti licks at his bottom lip, and with his eyes closed there is virtually no difference between Jack’s face and his. It’s strange, nightmarish, horrifying, and worst of all, Jack’s kissing back. His lips move on their own accord, opening so readily to accommodate Anti’s tongue that Jack is dizzy with it. Every cell in his body is screaming in protest, but he’s not in control, can’t stop any of it. He just lies there, head tilted back, and lets Anti bite harshly at his lips like he really does own him, like nothing in the world could stop him.

“Told you so,” Anti purrs as he pulls away, and Jack can’t even talk back. His mouth opens uselessly, fishlike, and not a single word comes out as Anti smiles, triumphant. He leans forward, brushing his lips across the lobe of Jack’s ear so lightly that Jack barely feels them.

“You’re all mine, Jackaboy. All it took was my name,” Anti whispers, and fear turns the blood in Jack’s veins to ice.

_No. No no no no it can’t be it can’t be it can’t be-_

“Tell me, _mo milis_. Who do you belong to?”

**_No no no fuck Mark please help me no fuck no no no no-_ **

“ _I belong to you, Anti_.” The voice is his but the words aren’t, and Jack is screaming louder than he ever has in his life but he’s not making a fucking sound. Pale fingers link with his, and Anti’s grinning as he pulls Jack up with him.

_“That’s right, little one. And now, you’re coming with me.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell thats me done i hope u liked it and also i apologise
> 
> the poem i used fot the starts of the chapters is 'as i walked out one evening' by WH Auden and its my fave and it's actually a super sad and lovely poem that i just made IMMENSELY creepy and honestly auden's probably rolling over in his grave
> 
> anyways please leave me some comments and also i love u loads and thank u for reading!!!!


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